


Sail to You

by iammisscullen



Category: One Direction, Zarry - Fandom
Genre: AU, I tried for this to be good -- don't kill me, M/M, idek what i was thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 09:19:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2727032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iammisscullen/pseuds/iammisscullen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(basically, a short AU of what happened to Zayn between those 30 years from <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/writeivywrite/works">writeivywrite's</a> 'Beyond the Sea'.)</p><p>"As he stares at the green crystal bottle sitting on his car’s windowsill with the sun illuminating the bottle that sends spectrum of beautiful jade colour at the spaces the ray touches. Zayn’s heart suddenly clenches at the sight because it reminds him of Harry’s verdant eyes that gives hope to people like spring does. His heart breaks a little at the very memory of Harry and all the things they could both be doing together."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sail to You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writeivywrite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeivywrite/gifts), [slytherakin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherakin/gifts).



> First of all massive thanks to writeivywrite for letting me do this. This story would not have existed if it wasn't for her inspiring BEYOND THE SEA. Thanks so much Ivy!
> 
> Next, thanks to Twin ([slytherakin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherakin/works)) who pushed me to do this and who beta-ed half of this story. She's not even a Zarry shipper but she's tolerating me to abuse her skills at editing.
> 
> Should I mention Blitzy (@_miichie_)??? I mean she didn't help me. LOL! I need to do so cos she's like letting me go crazy and reading the Zarry I ask of her -- also not a Zarry shipper.
> 
> So massive thanks to these three lovely ladies!  
> Enjoy!
> 
> P.S.  
> This was not thoroughly beta-ed so all mistakes are mine. Forgive me.

_Everything carries me_

_to you, as if everything_

_that exists; aromas, lights, metals, were little_

_boats that sail towards_

_those isles of yours that wait for me._

-Pablo Neruda

 

The room is dark and cold and there’s a soft beeping sound on his right. Zayn slowly opens his eyes and tries to remember how he got into the eerie room with its chill that sips through his bone. The dead silence is so loud that it has become something like a terrible nightmare of demise.

Zayn misses the sound of the waves as they lick their way to the shore and ebbing back into the waters again, the repetition of it is symphony to his ears that keeps him calm. He misses the growling of the wind outside accompanied by the loud tapping of heavy raindrops on his window. And he misses –

Harry!

Zayn’s eyes eagerly open and slowly props himself up but only to be hinder by the heaviness in his body that he doesn’t know why it feels like that. He settles on craning his neck as he scans the room for a mop of curls, pale skin, and tattooed arms. He waits quietly for the stillness to be broken with a soft humming from a voice that had lulled him to sleep for so many nights before. But there is none. He is all alone as the silence sits with him and it’s terrifying because he isn’t use to it now. The muteness chokes him and he needs to break it. Or for someone to break it.

 _You’re okay. Breathe. Just breathe_ , that’s what Harry use to tell him when he gets all panicky. And Zayn trusts Harry with his life.

He closes his eyes back again and relaxes his muscles or whatever muscle he can move at the moment because he can’t seem to feel his left leg. He takes a deep breath and exhales it loudly in a slow motion, trying to pacify himself with the thought that he may be back in reality but he’s going to be okay.

Behind his eyelids all he can see is Harry waving at him as he leaves the island. Glorious Harry that seems to be radiating light around him or maybe that’s what Zayn wants to see. And there’s a single tear wanting to escape his eye as he thinks of how he has to live every day from now on, on his own with no Harry to help him.

The room smells of antiseptic and makes Zayn’s stomach churn as he tries not to think of death and oblivion. Harry not being here with him is worse than any demise, it’s a constant torture; an every day hell without his safe harbour to dock on in the times of storms.

There’s nothing in his current cage that welcomes him, that makes him feel like his home. He wants to go back to that small cottage – with no telly, curtain-less windows, a threadbare carpet, and photo-less walls – at least somehow that feels more like home. It may have not been if it weren’t for Harry.

Harry that smells like cinnamon and flour and fuits. Harry with hair that smells like strawberries. Harry with skin that smells like home; a crackling fire, hot chocolate, and warm hugs.

His Harry that tells the worst joke on the planet but can lift up the mood in the room with a dimpled smile.

And Zayn needs Harry so bad. He’s drowning and he can’t find the shore. The shore that will lead him to Harry. His Harry, the one who understands Zayn when everyone else in the world can’t.

With a heavy heart and broken spirit, Zayn forces himself back to unconsciousness in the hope that he will see bright smiles and dimples as he drags himself back into slumber.

**

Michael visits him the third time he’s awake and Zayn loathes it. It’s the very slap in his face that tells him he’s indeed back to reality and his old life. A life he didn’t like and steals every breath in his lungs before it can even pass his tongue.

A life without Harry.

‘There’s my superstar.’ Michael is grinning from ear to ear with happiness and Zayn can tell there’s some relief in his voice even if he tries not to show it because _Never get personal feelings into business_ is his mantra. ‘How are you?’

‘M’fine,’ he says looking away. They have changed his room and had brought him out of the ICU.

The window of his new room is wide enough that he can see the sky outside and the birds flying. The palm trees are as high as ever and the sun is shining brightly but it does no good in lifting Zayn’s mood. LA they have said is a nice place to be, with strangers smiling to one another because it is a land of promises and dreams. In LA you can be whoever you like and now – because of that – Zayn doesn’t even know who he is anymore.

LA is beautiful and like the sirens it can drown you, delete the morals you have long etched into your heart. No one can be quite the same if they ever taste what Hollywood can offer. The fame is so, so, so good but at the same time intoxicating and poisonous.

‘I don’t want to do it,’ he mumbles quietly still not looking away from the golden city of fame that glistens more when the sun is at its highest peek in the sky.

‘What?’ Michael looks like he had been slapped.

Zayn turns his eyes to his agent. ‘I don’t want to be the next James Bond.’

Michael lets out an incredulous laugh, looking at Zayn like he’s gone mad. And maybe Zayn did go a bit crazy. One will if you have to live all your life under the lens of cameras and people’s judgmental gazes that will make you question your very existence.

‘Zed, you’re just tired,’ he says. ‘Just get some rest and you can decide then okay?’ He has a tight smile on his lips because he knows that Zayn can never be budge once he’s made a decision.

‘Have you ever been up north?’ Zayn says, a small smile on his lips as he thinks of the story he has heard from _someone_ about the Auroras.

‘Nope,’ Michael answers cautiously like he’s trying to test the waters, trying to decode where the conversation is leading.

‘Same.’ He smiles wider and it feels like he hasn’t done so in a very long time. ‘I’m going to see them after my leg heals.’

**

He’s on a train from France, heading to Italy. He’s heading to San Gimignano in Florence and after that to Greece because it’s still snowing in London even when it’s already April. It’s not that he hates snow, it’s just that his old-injured leg can’t take the cold seasons sometimes as it aches a bit like someone hammering it. The pain is bearable but it reminds him of many things… of someone.

He knows that he had promise not to forget but remembering is like clawing his own heart out of chest and setting it on fire and be burn to ashes. Yet, it’s a good pain and a pain he’d go all over again for it’s the only thing that reminds him of Harry. It grounds him that there’s more to life than the exhausting fame he is trying to live in. It assures him that he has a home he can come back to if ever the old monsters under his bed steals away the memories of who he is. He will never be another faceless man under the mask that society had put on him. He knows who he is all thanks to Harry.

As he stares at the green crystal bottle sitting on his car’s windowsill with the sun illuminating the bottle that sends spectrum of beautiful jade colour at the spaces the ray touches, Zayn’s heart suddenly clenches at the sight because it reminds him of Harry’s verdant eyes that gives hope to people like spring does. His heart breaks a little at the very memory of Harry and all the things they could both be doing together.

Harry could have been with him when he went to see the Northern Lights 10 years ago. Zayn isn’t much of a dancer but maybe he and Harry could have danced along with the Auroras that colours the sky the night he first came.

Harry could have been with he went to see the Temple of Abu in Egypt that still thrills Zayn because that’s where _Transformers 2_ happened. He can already see the terror in Harry’s face as he teases him about mummies and sphinx.

Harry should have been there during that wonderful elephant ride in Sri Lanka that is on Zayn’s _Best Moments in My Life_ list. They could have feed the elephants with bananas and apples and watch the huge mammals play footsie with one another.

He wants Harry to accompany him back to Palau to see the Jellyfish Lake. The jellyfishes doesn’t sting, they said, and Zayn would love to swim in that lake with Harry – by that time he hopes, he already knows how to swim.

And maybe they could have both gotten a matching _pe’a_ in Samoa. A simple _Maktub_ lettering would have been cool. Because just like everything else, Harry and Zayn’s meeting is fate – _it is written_.

‘Baba,’ a familiar voice calls and Zayn turns to it; wide green eyes look back at him. ‘Are you going with us next year to Mecca?’ Zayn can’t look away from those emerald eyes that he knows too well, shinning with excitement and hope like the world isn’t a cruel place.

‘If Allah wills it, _meri jaan_.’ He smiles at her though his voice contradicts what his face is showing.

The girl pouts and his smile widens because it’s simply like the ones Harry had given him when he refuses to eat the pumpkin soup that the younger man made once. He’s never much a fan of vegetables. ‘Baba, you keep on assuming that you will not make it till next year and it’s annoying,’ she points out, glaring at him but her eyes are too sad to scare anyone. ‘You have lots of time left,’ she says softly this time, taking his hand that’s resting on top of his thigh; hands that are always warm no matter the weather.

Harry has hands like that too – warm even in the winters – and he insists that it is what makes his cooking brilliant. His _solar_ hands as he prefers to call it after some TV show in Japan. Harry said that his _solar_ hands make his bread five star worthy. And they both laughed at it.

Maybe it was Harry’s _solar_ hands that make the bread more delicious; that warms up whatever was dead inside Zayn and brings him back to life. A whist of spring that puts an end to the cold within him.

‘Only Allah knows that, Anahita.’ He squeezes her hand back to assure her. Of what? He’s not sure of.

She rests her head on his shoulder. ‘I’m going to ask the _mullah_ to pray more for you.’

Her hair smells like strawberries. And Zayn feels like 38 again, wandering into strong arms but never getting lost because he never will be with Harry. He has mapped out every single detail about Harry that he may wander from the spaces of his body – discovering more planes and curves with trembling fingers – but he will never need any navigation to find his way because not all who wanders are lost. Or at least that’s what he learned from Tolkien.

He keeps on wandering for the last 30 years and he can feel that it’s not long now till he goes home. Where is home? He can hear _him_ say it loud and clear like it’s just yesterday. Each word etched into his heart; wills him to wake up every day and face the unknown happenings of the day. _It’s where you’re understood_ , Harry says to him when Zayn said he doesn’t even know where home is anymore.

And at that moment – right before he kisses Harry – Zayn knows that he’s home. Harry’s lips fitting against him perfectly and moving with him like the other man knows what Zayn wants even before he knows it himself. It’s like getting to know Harry all over again as they kiss, but then the fear of jumping into an abyss of unknown not present as he seeks what is still left to uncover behind the pale boy with random tattoos.

Heart beating fast, tongue collecting datum, and mind registering new information – Zayn just didn’t learn about Harry. Zayn finds a piece of himself in their kiss, like Harry’s the piece that he had been yearning all his life. A part of Zayn that he looked for; behind the masks he wore, at the empty bottle of alcohol he drank, when all there’s left of his cigarette is the filter.

He didn’t know he’d find a piece of himself under dominating tongue and short kisses. That’s why Harry is the perfect home.

And he’s almost home.

But as he thinks of leaving – of going away—something in Zayn wants to break and maybe he wants it to happen so he can give it away to the people important to him. A memento for them to remember him if they ever miss him. It could be some wise advice, an heirloom, a story to be told over Christmas dinners. Anything to keep the huge void of missing him bearable that it’s almost a beautiful nightmare.

It’s not that Zayn is vain, thinking that he will be missed so deeply that it seems like the earth will stop turning and oxygen will no longer suffice if he’s gone. But he knows what it feels like to miss someone, to crave someone’s weight next to yours in bed when you sleep, to tell someone about your day, to curl up to a warm body as you watch a rerun of _Breakfast at Tiffany’s_ on the telly.

People will forget eventually but it doesn’t mean they won’t remember every now and then. And it doesn’t mean it would hurt less when they do. Because when you love someone – truly, deeply love them that they set your heart on fire and inject themselves into your bloodstream that you’re sure if someone cuts you open, you’ll bleed their name – you never fully get over them.

The pain of missing them doesn’t lessen or escalate, it’s just there and it’s bearable. _But it’s just there_. Never going away. Never leaving.

And as Zayn holds his granddaughter closer, wishing and hoping that the scar he’ll leave the people he loves can be healed with Band Aids, can be mended with a few happy memories, and can disappear with a kiss.

**

The village with cobbled streets, friendly faces and even friendlier smiles, is what greets Zayn in San Gimignano. He sees a few old towers that stand proudly, telling a story that history books could never do justice. It’s definitely one of his favourite places in the world. Simple and wonderful.

It’s almost sunset when he and Anahita reached _Hotel L’ Antico Pozzo._ The last time he was here the manager of the place was Emanuele Marro, a fine man with lax aura like any Italians. The man behind the desk this time is someone called, Miguel with olive skin and grey green eyes.

Zayn doesn’t speak Italian so he mainly says about his two room reservations and gives Miguel his credit card.

‘Enjoy your stay,’ Miguel says and smiles widely at Zayn, his English over accented like he’s professing his love to someone. And Zayn wonders if that’s what Romeo sounds like as he confesses his feelings to Juliet.

They are led to their room by one of the male staff, carrying their luggage. Anahita follows behind the Italian man while Zayn walks slowly, falling behind the youngsters as he tries to savour the walls around him. The same walls he passed through not so many years ago when he first came to the hotel. They echo a past he can never come back to but will always remember. And maybe that’s the thing that change can’t take away – keeping the past unscathed in your memory but accepting whatever comes your way in the present as you hope for a better future.

**

He stays at Room 20 and Anahita on Room 19.

This room is different from the Room 14 he had stayed before. It has pastel coloured walls and a simple bed – Room 14 has some intricate canopy and exquisite paintings . Room 20 isn’t ugly just because it’s not as sophisticated as the other room. The simplicity of the room actually calms Zayn because he’s spend a lifetime of adventures and a day of trying to do something worth remembering that he had forgotten that the simplest things are the most precious.

There’s a satellite television in the room but he doesn’t turn it on. He’s had enough of news and fame.

He gets his tattered moleskin and opens it.

He tries to remember the people he had an honour of meeting as he sits down to a plush chair by the window, overlooking the beautiful sunset that creates taunting silhouettes of the towers in San Gimignano. Orange and dark pink colours the afternoon sky, screaming a statement that Zayn can only surmise and look with wonder. It’s like a beautiful symphony of melancholy and hope – sadness that the day is ending but anticipating a new and fresh beginning.

He stares at the sunset – one of the great luxury of having time in your hands – and he marvels if what Harry thinks of this phenomena. Does the boy see it as an ending or a beginning? But knowing Harry – and his unfathomable optimism – Zayn knows Harry sees it as the latter.

When the intriguing colours were gone, replaced by darkness – the stars slowly displaying themselves against the bleakness of night – Zayn decides that it’s time to pay attention to his moleskin. He had told Anahita that he will be resting tonight so he won’t be disturbed.

He looks at the writings in his moleskin and smiles at himself. It’s funny how his handwriting is sometimes of different strokes to each other, it solely to be blamed on his mood. If he’s in a hurry he’ll simply make a scribble of the names he writes that sometimes even he himself can’t read it. If he’s taking his time though, he writes the names on bold letters sometimes even going over and making it looked like it’s a font style from MS Word.

He stares at the names he had written all these years and he feels glad that he got to see them all: the Royal family, Peter Jackson, Bon Jovi, Leonardo DiCarpio, Felix Finkbeiner, Arvind Gupta, Tim Cook, Oprah, etc. People of different races and ages. People who are known in society and some of them changed the world. But what Zayn realise is that no matter how many people he had listed for so many years, none of their achievement really matter much to him. Sure, they must have changed thousands or millions of lives all over the planet, but they aren’t there when Zayn needed a hand to hold, needed a heart to call home.

Harry was there when Zayn needed him. And Harry’s always there – waiting – if ever Zayn needs him again.

**

The short donkey ride to the hotel they’ll be staying at Santorini exhausts Zayn as if he’s the one carrying the animal as they climb the steps of stairs all across the island.

The whole island itself reminds Zayn of the one where Harry is. White houses all over the island but in Santorini the concrete houses seems to be blending with each other that if you look at it from afar you won’t know which is the end of one house and which does the other starts. It’s like a colony of houses. And all of them are closely similar to the other; concrete houses with huge window – that are always open to let the breeze come in.

Greek is one of the hardest language to learn, the alphabet looking more and more like Chinese characters, so Zayn doesn’t bother knowing the name of the hotel he and Anahita stays in.

It’s midday and they have lunch in the balcony of the hotel, looking over the blue sea and the docks. The sky is azure with the sun shinning fiercely above them and there are barely any clouds but the heat is tolerable.

‘Where’s the next stop, Baba?’ Anahita asks as she forks a tomato from her Greek salad, her free arm on the table.

‘ _Home_ ,’ he says and smiles, putting more olive oil on his salad.

Anahita chews the tomato she just put inside her mouth and looks at her grandfather. ‘I don’t understand why you won’t take anyone with you on this trip.’

Zayn sighs fondly. ‘And yet here you are.’ He smiles at his cheeky granddaughter.

She shrugs and eats another tomato. ‘That’s cos I snuck out and stalked you.’

‘You’re going to be grounded for a long time, _meri jaan_.’

‘S’worth it.’ She grins with food still in her mouth. Zayn smiles because it would have been a sad trip if Anahita wasn’t with him. ‘I just didn’t want you to feel so alone and doing your crazy bucket list by yourself. Mama stubbornly disagreed with you going so far away all alone. S’not safe, she would say.’ She’s looking serious now, too mature for her young age of 18.

‘Nothing is certain of safe, is there?’ He tilts his head to the side. ‘Everything changes. Seasons, status, feelings.’

‘I guess so,’ she answers and playfully stabs the remaining of her salad. ‘S’that why you didn’t get married? You didn’t trust that it would last?’ She didn’t mean any harm by the questions yet Zayn can’t help but feel like he has failed in that section… _love_.

He looks far away. It’s not that he’s missing love in his life. He has his family – nieces and nephews from his sisters, grandchildren from those nieces and nephews – so there’s no lack of love in his life. What maybe is missing is him completely letting someone have the control to make him or break him. He didn’t hand over to anyone the razor, and the map that points out where to cut him deep where it’ll hurt like salt to the wounds.

He can never offer his battered heart to anyone who may be willing to fix it because only half of it is left. Nobody wants half a heart because it needs to be whole even when it’s in pieces. You can put the pieces back to make it whole but it’s impossible to make it whole when the half of it has been given away.

And that’s why Zayn never married. Not because he doesn’t believe in the constituency of marriage, not because he’s got a broken heart; but because his half a heart is waiting for its other half so it can be whole again – the other half that is left to the green eyed boy with dimpled smile at some unknown island.

‘Or is it because of that guy you used to paint?’ She thinks, brows furrowing in concentration. ‘What’s his name again?’ Her brows furrow more. ‘Harry right?’

Even the sound of _his_ name makes Zayn shiver. He doesn’t know if Anahita notices or not, he doesn’t care.

It’s just been so long since Zayn’s heard Harry’s name out loud. When he whispers it inside his head it sounds different. He’s just not used to people saying it, lacing it along with the polluted world they all live in. He’s not comfortable letting others speak it like it’s _just_ a name. It’s not. Maybe for Zayn it isn’t.

It’s more than _just_ a name. More than _just_ a person. It’s _Harry_. It’s his life and happiness. _It’s his home_.

Zayn’s not possessive or whatever you may think of him. But if possible he doesn’t want people saying Harry’s name like it’s ordinary. They have to say it with reverie like the name itself can save a life or cure world hunger. Yet Zayn can’t expect people to be like him. _Only he_ can taste the goodness of Harry’s name and keep it safe in his lips.

‘How come you never talk of him anymore?’ she asks when Zayn doesn’t look like he’s going to answer because it’s hard to explain. There’s no need for explaining because love doesn’t need explanation, doesn’t need _Because_.

Zayn doesn’t want to share his memory with Harry with anyone. He doesn’t talk about it because it’ll feel like it’s nothing more but a distant memory – a dream that he can never go back to – if he ever speaks of it. It lessens the value of their worth like he’s trying to hard to keep all the pieces together, giving it away so other people may see and know, but in the end nobody will understand and care of what Zayn and Harry had.

So instead of explaining this to Anahita, Zayn just smiles sagely at his granddaughter as if to say, _Someday you’ll understand why_.

**

Of course he knows it’s a dream. It’s been a long time since he has dreamt of Harry.

They’re out in the beach. The sand between their toes, the little waves that crashes the shore tries to catch their feet but they’re a tiny inches away from it. The wind is blowing and that’s all Zayn can hear next to his beating heart.

Harry’s holding his hand – his hands that aren’t wrinkled like it is now which even more confirms that _this_ is a dream – and that’s all Zayn can focus on. The warmth of the huge palm that reaches up to his heart.

Usually in his dreams Harry speaks to him. But in this one, Harry doesn’t. Harry just smiles at him like that’s enough to translate the _I miss you_ s, _I need you_ s, and the _I love you_ s that they’ve failed to tell each other.

Harry squeezes his hand softly and maybe that’s enough when words themselves can’t procure what the heart wants to say.

‘ _Soon_ ,’ is all Zayn hears from Harry as he lies awake on his bed.

The window beside his bed that overlooks the dock sends in a cool breeze that touches his face when he rises from the bed. He stares out the window and sees everything: a few flickering lights from some houses, probably having late night chats or party; and the glistening sea that reflects the moon’s pale light.

There are no stars as the moon takes its reign in the sky, illuminating everything with its ashen ray that’s both beautiful and sad.

He couldn’t go back to sleep so Zayn decided to take a midnight stroll down the docks just to hear the lap of the water on the deck. The sound of the sea calms him somehow despite his fear of drowning.

The hotel isn’t far off so it didn’t take to much time or energy to reach the line of boats by the dock. As he’s getting closer he hears a strumming of a guitar and as if by instinct he heads to it, like it’s calling him.

The only lit up boat is where the melody comes from. He never seeks company but he feels like having one now.

‘Nice evening isn’t it?’ says the stranger on the boat. The man is as young when Zayn had met Harry. He’s wearing the common white, loose cotton shirt and trousers.

‘It is,’ Zayn answers and looks around him, lets the image of this night be tattooed on his brain, etched behind his eyelids.

The stranger puts his guitar down and rises up. ‘I’m actually heading out to the sea to watch the sunrise from the boat. You want to come?’

Zayn doesn’t want to trust this stranger with a strange Greek accent who speaks fluent English. But he’s got nothing to lose if he does, right? It’s not like something bad could happen. Besides Zayn wants to experience watching the sunrise from a boat too.

So Zayn nods. The stranger leans to help Zayn into the boat – it’s not yacht size but more like the typical sail boat for a lax person to chill on when the world drives him insane and enough to live in for a couple of days.

And just before Zayn gets on it, he stares once more into the sleeping neighbourhood of Santorini. The silence makes him smile because it settles in his heart and creates peace.

‘I have to tell you though,’ Zayn says, still looking at the quiet island. ‘I don’t know how to swim.’

The stranger chuckles amusedly. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t let you drown.’

Zayn turns to the stranger this time, a friendly smile on his lips. ‘Yeah?’

The stranger nods and offers his hand – palm wide open – to guide Zayn into the boat. Zayn accepts it and slowly steps in. The smash of the water against the boat makes it wobble a bit and enough to make Zayn dizzy.

‘You alright?’ And that’s when Zayn knew he could trust the man with the concern tangling on the man’s voice.

‘M’fine,’ Zayn assures. ‘Maybe I just need to lie down a bit.’

‘Okay.’ The man ushers Zayn to a sleeping bag at the floor of the boat. Some canopy of fairy lights hanging above Zayn as he lies down slowly. ‘Better?’

‘Yeah.’ He still feels a bit dizzy but his vertigo isn’t into puking level. ‘Thanks.’

The stranger smiles at him with relief, blue eyes serene as nature around them. ‘No problem.’ He arranges Zayn’s pillow a bit. ‘I’ll just start the boat okay?’

The stranger rises up and leaves Zayn, his voice echoing inside Zayn’s head like a soothing breeze that makes him feel sleepy. And with heavy eyelids he begins to drift off to sleep, eyes sluggishly closing and the last thing his sight catches before he’s drag back to slumber is the name of the boat above on one of the sails: _CHARON_.

**

 **_THE MAIL:_ ** **FAMOUS ACTOR, ZAYN MALIK, FOUND DEAD IN HIS HOTEL ROOM IN SANTORINNI.**

 

 

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you got the ending. Thanks for reading! :)
> 
> Charon - is the ferryman in Mythology that takes you to the Underworld when you die.


End file.
